


Lovely Eyes

by fuckityfardisgetinthetardis



Category: Lolitics, Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 11:01:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4743857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckityfardisgetinthetardis/pseuds/fuckityfardisgetinthetardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andy starts to have feelings for a certain Guardian journalist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lovely Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Set literally five minutes after the Sky Labour Leadership Debate. I have no idea where this fic is going.

Andy watched him as he moved through the crowd, watched as he smiled and shared a few words with various audience members. The debate was over (thank god), and he had come through in one piece. Which is all he could ask for, really. Jeremy was the winner by a mile; he didn’t need to see any statistics to know it. The blond haired lad clearly had seen the stats: that much was obvious by the way he bounded up the stairs of the stage, and towards Jeremy, a gleaming smile etched on his face as he grabbed the man’s hand and shook it vigorously, patting him repeatedly on the back and talking animatedly about his performance.

  
Yvette and Liz were talking quietly to each other, occasionally glancing at their much older rival, and making small talk about what they were going to do when they got home. Not a single mention of policies or performance, and to be quite honest, Andy couldn’t blame them. He didn’t really want to talk about it either; and this emotion was cemented when he got the result of the interactive poll on his phone: 4.7% of the SkyPulse users thought he’d won.

  
He knew advisors and audience members would want to have a chat, but he just couldn’t bring himself to care about anything. He was completely shattered, and wondered if he could just get away to a spare room for five minutes, to drink a cup of tea or do _anything_ that didn’t involve talking about the fucking mansion tax.  
He had gotten himself out of the studio and into a small side room, which was thankfully devoid of journalists or reporters. He leant against a pale wall and tilted his head back, letting his eyes close and his mind empty itself of thought, taking deep breaths. His headache was pounding against his temples, and he concentrated on the rhythm of the throbbing, hoping it would subside slowly.

 

 

“Mr Burnham?”

“I’m sorry, I was just-”

The words were out of his mouth before he’d even opened his eyes.

Owen Jones was standing in front of him, pale green eyes a little concerned. He quirked one eyebrow before continuing,

“Mr Burnham? Are you alright?”

He unglued his head from the wall and forced a grin.

“I’m fine, I just decided to take some time out for a few minutes….”

He hurriedly took out his phone and checked the time.

“….or rather, I decided to nod off for forty minutes.”


End file.
